It was white. Everything was white. Translucent. It was cold. Everywhere was cold. The neighborhood silent. Montreal, breathless. Frost. Ice. Still. Insomnia. January 1998.

Lately, I fall asleep to the sound of woodwinds. Tonight, the sound of brass was muted by the storm, and replaced by the sound of wind whistling through the window pane. In our living room, on the television stand, a new copy of…